A couple days from Cheyenne, out of food and luck, we follow the shallow river. In late afternoon, a lone, dappled horse grazes on the far bank.

“It’s a wild horse,” George says. “I’d eat horse.”

I have the rifle. It’s an easy shot.

“Go ahead,” George whispers. “Before he spooks.”

I take aim. The horse lifts its head and looks across the river at us. George and I stand still in the shadows, hardly breathing. I start to squeeze the trigger. It isn’t right. I know it isn’t right. We’re almost to Cheyenne, and a long way from starving.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #341 at Velvet Verbosity.